


Where One Ends

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 03:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19165114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: Two thoughts enter Aziraphale’s mind.The first is that he’s read that line a hundred times before and has always found it a bit blasé (even if now he finally understands the author’s intended meaning) and second-“Crowley!”He pulls away from his partner, staring at the demon with wide eyes, bruised lips parted as he tries to catch his breath in the midst of his revelation.“What?”“I know what it means!”





	Where One Ends

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two so much. Enjoy!

 

 

 

**Where One Ends**

 

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

The invitation isn’t a surprise. Aziraphale has enough sense to know that Crowley is a surprisingly unselfish bastard who has, over the centuries, offered a great many things in the attempt to provide Aziraphale with a modicum or comfort and contentment.

No, what surprises Aziraphale, is how badly he wants to accept.

“I don’t think my side would like that,” he says, and it’s true. Heaven would not like him staying with a demon anymore than he suspects Hell would appreciate a demon coming over for tea and biscuits at an angel’s bookshop.

The space where Aziraphale’s metaphorical heart rests bursts with pain at the thought of his loss. All those books. All that history and knowledge… gone.

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley reminds him, and it’s not cruel, it’s not a boast. Despite everything, despite Aziraphale being so _sure_ that the Great Plan was supposed to happen, despite realizing (nearly too late) that he’d been wrong about everything, despite turning away the one person he’s ever truly valued in any capacity, somehow Crowley isn’t braggadocious. He isn’t cocky about how wrong Aziraphale has been. It’s a simple statement of fact, news broken in the same way Aziraphale imagines one might tell someone their spouse has just passed away.

“Neither of us do,” he amends softly. “We’re on our own side.”

Aziraphale can almost feel the question in Crowley’s voice. As if, after everything, he’s unsure of what he’s saying is actually true. And that stings. But Aziraphale understands that he has given Crowley no reason to think otherwise, and accepts the doubt that’s mixed in with the hope, and vows that after this moment he will ensure Crowley never has to wonder whose side Aziraphale is on ever again.

“Like Agnes said. We’re going to have to choose our faces wisely.”

Ah. The prophecy. Aziraphale knows that the prophecy should be a more immediate concern, but Crowley is looking at him with this barely-disguised look of _please be on my side. Please choose me_.

The bus arrives.

Aziraphale sits next to Crowley. “Is your offer still good?”

Crowley turns to look at him. “‘Course. Long as you want, angel.”

Aziraphale nods. He tries not to focus on the word _want_.

When the bus arrives at Crowley’s flat, they step off together.

Aziraphale has been in Crowley’s apartment a few times. They tended to meet in Aziraphale’s shop in order to keep up appearances with their respective offices, but a few occasions had led them both to spending a comfortable evening here, chatting idly over takeaway and wine. Flashes of moments cross Aziraphale’s mind, evenings spent arguing over Shakespeare, laughter and simplicity.

Things are so much different now. Or at least, things are simpler.

Aziraphale sees a mess on the floor in the hallway near one of the rooms, broken pieces of red plastic and a half-melted clothing and a black, inky goo.

“What happened there?”

Crowley shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. “Hmm?” He glances over to the spot Aziraphale is staring at. “Oh,” he sighs. “Something I’ll no doubt be in huge trouble for.”

Aziraphale steps closer to it, but is stopped by a hand on his arm. “Not worth troubling yourself over. Come on, angel.”

As they step past, Aziraphale glances into the room and notices a familiar tartan thermos on the table, lid screwed on, but knocked over. He glances from the thermos to the pile on the floor. A hand flies to his mouth. He understands.

“Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley notices where Aziraphale’s gaze has landed and he sighs again. “Told you I wanted insurance,” he murmurs tiredly. It isn’t that he feels guilty. He’d never cared for Ligur, but he still knows that Hell won’t be happy with such a traitorous act.

It’s not worth thinking about.

“Come on. I need tea. Well. I need _alcohol_ , but I’ll make _you_ some tea, if you want.”

“Chamomile, if you have it, please.”

“‘Course I do,” Crowley lies. He hardly has anything in his kitchen save for alcohol. Anytime he has a hankering for tea, he’s usually halfway to Aziraphale’s before he registers the craving. But a small bin of loose leaf tea is a trifle to miracle into his hand and so he does it with barely a thought, then sets about making tea and opening a bottle of wine. He doesn’t bother with a glass.

By the time he returns with their drinks, the mess that was Ligur is gone, and Aziraphale has made the thermos vanish.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Crowley remarks as he hands the angel his tea.

“It was no trouble,” Aziraphale answers as his fingers brush Crowley’s. “I didn’t want to look at it anymore than I’m sure you did.”

“Point.”

They stand there for several moments, unsure what to do or why to say. Aziraphale takes a few sips of tea, humming softly in contentment. “You always make it just right. Thank you.”

“No problem, angel.”

The teacup lowers, and Aziraphale’s brow furrows. “Is something wrong?”

“Just tired, I suppose,” Crowley answers wearily. It’s been a long day. A long eleven years. A long six thousand years.

“Yes,” Aziraphale replies, “I dare say I don’t think I’ve ever been able to understand the feeling until now.” He pauses, considers. “Weary might be more apt.”

“However you want to put it,” Crowley shrugs, downing a huge swing of wine. “And either way, I’ve a perfectly good bed, if you want to sleep.”

“I don’t want to impose-“

“We both need clear heads go figure out what to do about our superiors,” Crowley remarks. “And I for one, want this day to be _over_.”

Aziraphale can’t argue. He feels the same, feels weak and weary in ways he knows no supernatural being is meant to feel. But he feels it, this abstract heaviness of having spent eleven years shouldering a too-heavy burden, and it’s finally taking its toll on him.

“Let me finish my tea, and then sleep sounds lovely. But you’ll join me, won’t you? I can’t bear the thought of you being kicked out of your bed because of my foolishness.”

“I wouldn’t argue on a good day, but I’m not even going to put up a fight for politeness’ sake. Come on.”

Aziraphale moves to follow Crowley, full prepared to simply remove a few select articles of clothing, finish his tea, and collapse into a well-earned sleep. However as he turns he sees a small table with a few books stacked on top of them and something in Aziraphale _breaks._ A sob escapes him and he slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Angel?” Crowley turns around at the sound and starts, alarmed, when he sees Aziraphale standing at the edge of the hallway, hand clasped over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut, and shoulders quaking. He looks small, so small, and Crowley’s heart clenches at the sight. “Aziraphale?”

The angel doesn’t reply, instead shaking his head _no_.

In a few steps Crowley is back in front of Aziraphale, and with barely a thought the tea and wine are moved away onto the nightstand in the bedroom. With hands free, Crowley closes the distance between them and envelops Aziraphale in a tight hug. The angel doesn’t resist, in fact he is quick to embrace Crowley, head falling to the demon’s shoulders as he mourns the loss of his bookshop.

Crowley is mildly glad he already had his moment of grief over the Bentley. He can better focus on Aziraphale who, now that he thinks about it, he’d _also_ lost- or thought he had. Of the two, he’s glad he has his angel back rather than the car.

“I know,” Crowley mutters in what he hopes is a consoling manner. He’s never had to console anyone before and is convinced he’s rubbish at it, but nonetheless he strokes Aziraphale’s hair and holds him tight as the angel weeps. “I know, angel. I know. I’m so sorry.”

It occurs to Crowley that he’s never seen Aziraphale cry. He’s seen him happy, sad, angry, afraid. But never has he seen his companion moved to tears, and he wishes more than anything he knew how to make them stop, how to fix the broken heart of his dearest friend.

“No,” Aziraphale says afters a long while, once he’s managed to get himself under control. “I should be the one apologizing.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” Crowley soothes gently, easing Aziraphale down the hall toward the bedroom, one arm sliding down around his waist as he guides him. “It’s been a rough day; come on. Sleep and a clear head will help, I think.”

“No,” Aziraphale argues weakly, stopping them both in the hall. “Crowley, I-“ he stops, a choked sob escaping him. “I _abandoned_ you. I-“

“Hush now,” Crowley says with a touch of force. “We’ll talk in the morning. What matters is you’re here now.”

“But-“

“We took the scenic route, but we’re _here_ ,” Crowley repeats. “On the other side of the end of the world. Short a bookshop and a Bentley, but I’d rather have you, if I’m honest.”

“Y- you would?” Aziraphale sniffs.

“I can buy another car. I can’t replace you. Now c’mon. Bed. Sleep.”

Without another word, Crowley steps away from Aziraphale just enough to take his hand and lead him down the hall. Aziraphale follows, feeling foolish but grateful that Crowley doesn’t seem to mind. During the short trip, he glances down at their joined hands. It’s not the first time they’ve touched; it’s not the first time they’ve held hands, even. But something about this night, the tension of the end of the world and their part in both stopping it and nearly _not_ stopping it, the fact that he’d turned his back on Heaven to do what he thought was right- and to do it with _Crowley_ \- has left him grateful for the touch. He needs it, more than he ever realized. He’s glad for it, for the hellish warmth that prickles against his skin, the feeling of slender, bony fingers wrapped around his own soft, plump hand.

When they reach the room, Aziraphale tightens his hold. Crowley turns back, curious.

Aziraphale steps forward, almost shyly. “Thank you,” he whispers, wishing more than anything he could see Crowley’s eyes. They’re still hidden behind his signature dark glasses, and Aziraphale hates it. Absently, he brings up his free hand and to push the glasses up into Crowley’s hair. The demon blinks, the dim light still bright compared to how it had been a moment before, and then they squint in confusion.

“For what?”

Aziraphale’s hand slides down to rest on Crowley’s cheek, thumb idly brushing over the sharp point of his cheek.

“For not leaving.”

Crowley leans into the caress. “It wouldn’t have been worth it, if you weren’t there.”

“You are far too generous in your opinion of me,” Aziraphale whispers.

“And you don’t give yourself enough credit. I pushed when I knew I shouldn’t. I pressed you to make choices you weren’t ready to make. To choose when you weren’t ready to make a choice.” He pauses, then adds, voice tinged with sorrowful remembrance, “I go too fast for you.”

“No,” Aziraphale shakes his head, “I’m afraid that’s not true at all. I’m afraid I go too slowly.”

Crowley squeezes the hand that is still entwined in his, then leans forward to let their foreheads press together. “Maybe after six thousand years we’ll finally figure out a pace that suits us.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale breathes, “Though I fear I’ve  forced us to wait until the end of the world. I can’t imagine we have much time.”

“Then we take advantage of the time we have,” Crowley shrugs. He’s lived for so long, time creeping by, that the thought of there _not_ being any time left feels wrong. It doesn’t seem real. But he knows Aziraphale is right. Their respective sides will be out for blood. They are riding a short fuse to their destruction.

But for the moment, he has Aziraphale in his arms, and any future he may face will be worth it for this moment alone.

“Come on,” he breathes, “Sleep. The rest will come in the morning.”

 

< >

 

Morning comes, and with it, a whole slew of confusion and uncertainty. People awaken to a world that equally was and _wasn’t_ like it was the day before; things that had been broken were fixed. Dead was alive.

The world had ended yesterday, and today, like it did every day prior to that, it began anew.

Crowley, for his part, wakes up just as confused as the rest of the world. For one, he’s warm. Not the same kind of hellish warmth that always accompanies him, but a comfortable warmth that feels, well…

Divine.

Immediately following that revelation, he realizes he’s wrapped in an embrace. And immediately following _that,_ he hears the soft and still sleepy voice of Aziraphale mutter, “Oh good, you’re awake.”

Crowley shifts, belatedly noticing his own arm is slung across Aziraphale’s stomach. The angel makes no attempt to dislodge himself, and so Crowley doesn’t either, instead stretching a little before settling back against Aziraphale, head nestled in the crook of the angel’s shoulder.

“Been awake long?” Crowley asks. He’s not going to address the metaphorical elephant in the room if Aziraphale isn’t, at least not yet.

“A couple hours,” Aziraphale says, startling Crowley. “I’m not quite as used to sleeping as you are, my dear. Once I woke up, I was, well. Awake. And you seemed so content that I couldn’t bear the thought of waking you.”

Despite being an insufferable bastard at times, there are others, like this one, when Crowley finds Aziraphale unbearably kind. It’s a _four-letter-word_ , but it suits him.

“So you just lied here while I slept?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale says as he adjusts, shifting slightly out of Crowley’s embrace to turn onto his side so the two of them can face one another. They’re still close, but the absence of Aziraphale surrounding him makes Crowley scowl a little. “But I’ve also been thinking about Agnes’ prophecy.”

“Ah. That.”

“Yes.”

“Any thoughts worth sharing?”

Aziraphale shrugs as best as one can when lying down. “Only that I’m glad we’re stuck interpreting _one_. Poor Miss Device, having to figure out hundreds of them.”

“Great.”

“Anyway,” Aziraphale sighs. “How do you feel?”

“Fine, all things considered,” Crowley muses softly. “Much more pleasant waking up next to you than alone.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale flushes prettily. “I dare say it was quite nice to wake up here,” he pauses, “With you.”

Crowley has no words to respond to that, so he merely reaches out to catch Aziraphale’s hand in his. “Not gonna lie,” he admits, “I’ve wanted to wake up like this for a long time.”

Aziraphale sighs. “I suppose it would only make things worse if I confessed the same.”

Crowley blinks. “You did?”

The angel moves their joined hands to his lips where he kisses Crowley’s knuckles. There’s a slight sting to it, but it somehow feels lovely, just the right amount of pain.

“You know me,” the angel laughs nervously, “I’m a coward. I couldn’t have allowed myself this no matter how desperately tempted I might have been.  But I wanted. This. More. You.”

“Well, it’s a new day,” Crowley replies softly. “A new world.”

“I meant what I said last night,” Aziraphale whispers apologetically. “I’m sorry for digging in my heels on the matter. I very nearly lost you-“ and here Crowley tries not to dwell on the fact that, for a few hours, he _had_ lost Aziraphale- “And I am ashamed that it took such drastic events for me to figure out my priorities.”

“It’s in the past,” Crowley assures him. “No use dwelling on what no longer is.”

“Like the Bentley,” Aziraphale sighs. “The bookshop. Not knowing where we stand with one another.”

“At your side, if you’ll allow me.”

“I would very much like that.”

After six thousand years of knowing one another, of being each other’s confidant and best kept secret, after an eternity of seeing each other at their best and worst, it seems fitting that they move in one accord now, and shift closer together to allow their lips to touch. At first it’s barely there, gentle and timid, the way one tests a tub of water to see if it’s too hot before sinking in. That soft brush of lips sparks something between them, a burst of heavenly and hellish fire that burns in the strangest and most pleasant way, and then they are wrapped up in each other, kissing with a need that, after six thousand years, finally bursts through the surface and sweeps them up in a passion Aziraphale is certain he’s only ever read about.

He sighs against the onslaught of Crowley’s kiss, shifting so that he can wrap his arms around the demon, holding him close. Crowley, for his part, tugs on Aziraphale and drags the angel on top of him until Crowley is pinned between the angel and his bed.

They don’t cease kissing, tongues and teeth coming into play, causing both of them to moan as the strangely human but delightful feeling of desire begins to bubble inside them.

“ _Angel,”_ Crowley breathes as his lips trail over Aziraphale’s cheek, down his jaw and over his throat.

“ _My love_ ,” Aziraphale answers, torn between allowing Crowley to continue the fiery path he’s started along Aziraphale’s throat, or tilting his head up and reclaiming Crowley’s lips with his own.

He decides on the latter, tilting Crowley’s chin up with a finger and searing his lips to the demon’s, desperate and full of love.

It still burns, his lips against Aziraphale’s. It doesn’t hurt, not like he knows it’s meant to. They are- _were_ \- on opposite sides, and an angel and a demon aren’t meant to fit together like this, aren’t supposed to complete each other so perfectly that it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins-

Two thoughts enter Aziraphale’s mind.

The first is that he’s read that line a hundred times before and has _always_ found it a bit blasé (even if now he finally understands the author’s intended meaning) and second-

“Crowley!”

He pulls away from his partner, staring at the demon with wide eyes, bruised lips parted as he tries to catch his breath in the midst of his revelation.

“What?”

“I know what it means!”

Crowley blinks slowly, still dazed from the kissing. “What what means?”

“Agnes’ prophecy!” He declares, leaning forward to kiss Crowley happily before he sits up. “I know what it means,” he repeats, practically bouncing in his place straddling Crowley’s thighs, which doesn’t do much to refocus the demon’s concentration.

“Oh. Well? What have you discovered?”

“Well, while we were… well, _kissing_ -“ he stumbles over the word, as if he can’t believe he’d just done such a thing- “I was reminded of this trope in stories where in intimate moments it feels as if you can’t tell where-“

“One ends and another begins. Yes, angel, it’s _horribly_ trite.” He pauses, “But I s’pose I get what they’re trying to say.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale swallows. “ _That’s_ the point.”

“What’s the point?”

“My _point_ is this: you and I have spent so much time together, we know each other _so well_ , that I would be willing to bet my life on the possibility that _no one else_ would be able to tell where one of us ends and the other begins.”

Crowley thinks for a moment. “Choose your faces wisely,” he murmurs, then looks up to Aziraphale with wide-eyed understanding. “We pose as each other,” he breathes.

“You know me quite well,” Aziraphale reasons. “And I’m certain I can pull you off in a pinch-“ he makes a face as he realizes the innuendo of those words- “Oh, dear,” he stammers as Crowley laughs. “You know what I mean.” He reaches out and smacks Crowley’s leg. The demon catches his hand, entwining their fingers together.

“I imagine your lot will want to see you burn in hellfire for consorting with a demon of hell,” Crowley muses after he sobers.

“And I imagine your people would want to enact the same sort of punishment you dealt to that poor fellow that was in your hallway,” Aziraphale replies.

“Poor fellow, my _arse,”_ Crowley mutters. “But yes. I imagine so. Not sure _how they’d_ acquire those methods of punishment-“

“I think we would be foolish indeed to think we’re the _only_ angel and demon who have ever fraternized,” Aziraphale sighs. “After everything that’s happened, I’m willing to believe my… former… compatriots capable of almost anything.”

“Same for my lot,” Crowley agrees as he studies their joined hands for a long moment. “But what if that _isn’t-“_ he looks up, suddenly afraid. “What if we’re wrong and I’m sending you to hell to a fate far worse?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “We both know our sides want us executed for this. We’re traitors. We abandoned them for humans. For each other. I think… after all this time, I would rather die knowing I tried to save you than to do nothing at all.” He bends down, kisses Crowley’s hand. He feels the demon squeeze his his hand in response.

“Angel…”

“I’ve spent too long being afraid of the ramifications of loving you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice form and decided. “Of being afraid that I might Fall for it. But fear is not of God. Love, however, _is._ And I would rather die _fighting_ for the chance to be with you again, than to simply accept my fate at the hands of those who have never known how utterly divine it is to have been loved by someone as wonderful as you.”

Crowley sits up, knees bent under him, and leans forward to answer Aziraphale’s claim with a kiss. The angel responds in kind, desperate and sorrowful as tears slide drown their cheeks.

Finally they break away. Crowley’s hand cup Aziraphale’s face as they breathe, unnecessarily, but it feels right.

“Ready to face hell?”

Aziraphale nods. “If it means being with you on the other side of it all? Absolutely.”

 

< >

 

Crowley feels strange. He’s not used to the body he’s in, and while it’s weird to have extra weight, a bit of extra height, and softer features, (and oh, hell preserve him, the _tartan_!) it’s oddly intimate. He has no intention of taking any advantage of Aziraphale’s corporeal form, but being nestled within, knowing that he can look in the mirror and see the angel he loves staring back at him? Well, it’s comforting and cozy, and somehow makes him feel all the braver. Like he can actually pull this off.

He’s on his way to the bookshop, where he knows Aziraphale would want to inspect the damage done. He knows he’ll have to muster up some hysterics, some tears and lament over the centuries of literature lost to fire, though he suspects he won’t have to pretend as much as he feared.

He was rather fond of the bookshop and all its peculiarities.

The tears still come upon seeing the shop, but it’s nothing like what he imagined it would be.

The building is as it’s always been. There’s not a single scorch mark. It looks as if the building has never been aflame.

Crowley pulls the keys out of Aziraphale’s pocket and unlocks the door, making sure to lock it back once inside.

Nothing is damaged. Flashes of a room red and hot and burning flashes in Crowley’s mind, and his heart clenches at how he’d say in the midst of ash and fire and mourned the loss of his best friend. His love.

The angel whose corporeal form he currently inhabits.

He explores the shop, trying to be as thorough as he imagines Aziraphale would actually be. He knows the inventory well enough, and after an hour or two, he decides that apparently whatever Adam Young did in the aftermath of telling Satan off apparently was enough to undo a lot of what the last twenty-four hours had wrought.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters.

 

< >

 

They meet in the park, as planned.

They’re captured, as expected.

They survive, as hoped.

 

< >

 

They dine at the Ritz, and lunch is a lovely affair. Then they make their way back to the bookshop, where Aziraphale _does_ cry at the sight of his books all back where they belong. He’s amused by the new additions, and spends quite some time simply trailing his hands over the spines of books he’d mourned the night before.

Eventually however, he turns to Crowley, who has reclined on the sofa with a bottle of wine, watching as Aziraphale reacquaints himself with his books.

“Crowley?” He says softly.

“Yeah, angel?” He asks, lazily, already completely at ease with their newfound freedom. He knows it won’t last forever, so he’s going to enjoy it while he can.

Aziraphale smiles. “I love you.”

It’s absolutely freeing to say aloud, like unfurling his wings after centuries of keeping them confined and hidden.

Crowley sits up. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale nods. “Very much.”

Standing, Crowley saunters over to his angel, pulling him into a loving embrace. Aziraphale leans into it, fully accepting the weight of Crowley’s arms around him, the pleasant burn of his lips upon not-quite-so-holy skin. “I love you, too.”   
  
  



End file.
